Tear Me Two Ways from Heaven
by Wastelocked-Stories
Summary: Cas/Dean, angst, gay slash, fisting, Dean hates this part...


The last place Dean's felt heat this suffocating was down in the pit. Him and Sam had usually been blessed with chilly wet weather, not dry desert heat. It's well past midnight now but the temperature rages at almost ninety degrees, the wind dusting the cars on the lonely highway with dirt and scrub brush.

Dean isn't with Sam. Sam's back at the Two Bunch Cactus motel, the one with the peeling wallpaper, seventies shag carpet, and a whistling cracked window. While Dean's perched on his throne inside the Impala, Sam's probably trying to drown out the whistle with bad channels on the TV, beer in hand, his laptop stationed within arms reach.

The Impala doesn't have AC, but with the window down and Johnny Cash rolling like syrup into the night, it's nearly perfect. The choking heat of California's lower regions isn't so bad once he's driven so far out into the desert the streets have turned to sand and the only thing marking the side of the road are old beer cans, the ghostly bones of trailers, and a few shot up cars.

By the time Dean kills the engine, cracking open a beer and settling himself on the hood of the Impala, he really does think of hell. The grass here is dead and brown, the far-away city lights turn the murky sky a sickly orange on the horizon, silhouetting desert trash and forgotten treasures. But what this lost land holds above hell is the sky. Directly above it's black as Dean's baby, prickled with stars and swirling white wisps of milky way. The moon hangs swollen and yellow in the midst of it all.

The whole atmosphere pulls Dean in two directions at once and he hangs on the edge, letting it rip at the tethers of his sanity. Surrounding him is a scenery so sad, so nostalgic, it makes bile rise in his throat, his nerves whining in nostalgic sympathy. The pit. But above him it looks like heaven, it looks like peace of mind.

Whoever said solitude was lonely was wrong. Dean's one heck of a professional wanderer, content to be alone. Feels good sitting on the hood of his car with the wreckage of human beings and cactus surrounding him. If he ignores the resemblances of shitty memories, he can almost relax. So it's with itching annoyance that he turns to his right and lays his eyes on Castiel, bright and beautifully misplaced on the hood of the car. He doesn't say anything to Dean, so Dean doesn't bother to say anything to him.

It stays like that for awhile, two sets of eyes cast skyward, hearts heaven-bound, though Dean's still trying to rip himself from the lingering poisons of hell. Even though it looks like hell around them, hotter than shit, somehow the earth feels holy. Castiel feels holy, and Dean almost feels ashamed in his presence. Briefly he wonders if he felt ashamed when Castiel found him the first time in hell, before he dragged his ass top-side.

"Who you are now, is not who you were in hell Dean."

It's almost gentle, almost sweet the way Castiel says it. Dean knows he should be soothed, should feel a little better that there's at least one of God's creatures that forgives him but instead he just feels bitter and wonders what it would be like to punch an angel.

"Am I that obvious?" Dean asks, unable to keep the bite from his voice. He hears more than feels Castiel shift and looks over to see him propped up on his elbow. It's an almost human gesture, and if the mood weren't so somber, slicked by bad memories and beer, Dean might have laughed.

Castiel watches with blue eyes that could suck truth from a lying man's soul. "If it makes you feel any better, the position you're in is not really one of honor and fame. You are doing what only you can do--"

"Yeah. God's dirty work. That's not what I'm ashamed of." Dean interrupts, swilling down his bitter mood with bitter beer. Fight fire with fire they say.

"What are you shamed of then?"

Dean hates this part, hates how much he relishes getting it out in the open. If he looked deeper than surface wounds and pride he'd realize that it's the pain that hurts so good. It's fucked up, but as Dean says it, his cock swells in his pants, digging painfully into his zipper. "I'm ashamed because I broke down there. Because I liked it Cas. I ripped off feathers, sucked at the blood on their quills...and I liked it. It was so good Cas." A grim smirk is forced back behind teeth as Dean watches the angel's face drain of color, watch the eyes flash wide in one horrified moment.

It's gone quickly though, suspicion and doubt crossing over Castiel's face, head cocking and eyes narrowing. Dean's fairly certain the hairs on the back of Castiel's neck are standing on end and if he could see them, the arches of his wings would be stretched up high in aggressive warning. Lines stepped. Dean's gone too far, and oh...that feels good too. Unexpectedly, wonderfully good. He didn't beat around the bush, he didn't fuck of, he said it. Plain and simple.

"Do you mean to tell me you tortured angels down there Dean?" Well, that was quick to the point. Dean's brows raise, honestly impressed by the intelligence. No questions or dancing around on Castiel's end, not when it comes to his brothers it seems.

"Sometimes," Dean answers conversationally, "demons catch one of your kind, is able to drag it down to the pit. Causes a big commotion. Takes a lot of chains and hooks to nail those wings down long enough to get 'em on the rack. Angels wings, I learned, aren't fluffy and pretty like some sappy romance novel might have someone believe. They're weapons." Dean pauses for a second but Castiel's body is stiff and the angel's lips are pressed into a tight line. So Dean continues, "Once Allistair was certain he had me wrapped around his finger, his little protege, he let me have one of them. It was a gift he said." Dean shakes his head, lets it hang, beads of sweat from the suffocating air sliding down his cheek.

"You know what the worst part is Cas?" Dean asks, voice choked and gruff as gravel. The shock and tension has worn off, crackling away with the distant roll of thunder. Now he just feels like crap. Ashamed again.

"What's the worst part Dean?" Castiel asks, voice just as soft as Dean's, and not nearly as hard as Dean had thought it should sound.

"After everything I did to them...they forgave me. I tortured them Cas! Angels! And they fucking forgave me!" Dean's yelling now, eyes wild and strung out, pupils blown black as he stares at Castiel. As soft as Castiel's voice was though, his eyes are hard, and Dean knows there's a world of pain and fury raging beneath those icy blue depths.

Logically, Dean should be frightened when in a rush of movement, the sound of feathers lost in the howling wind, Castiel's on top of him, a hand planted firmly on his chest, digging just a little too hard. But Dean just lays there, legs spread wide, windshield wipers digging into the back of his head, Castiel's weight heavy on top of him. Dean swallows down spit that feels like chalk, silently laments his beer that's rolled out of his grip and is now feeding the sparse desert plants by the Impala's tire. "That's why I'm ashamed Cas. Because I liked it. And because...'cause they forgave me." It's high hoping, but Dean still prays Castiel didn't hear that last part. Dean doesn't believe he deserves forgiveness for enjoying such a dirty deed.

Dean's still quiet and dazed, resigned to his fate when the pressure of Castiel's hand leaves his chest and he works with firm persistence at Dean's pants, pushes them open and works both jeans and briefs down past Dean's bony hips, letting them hang at his ankles. Dean winces as his bare ass hits the hood of the car, still scorching hot from the sun hours ago and the engine beneath it. He tries to adjust to the sharp stinging pain as he hears Castiel sigh heavily.

"Does that feel good Dean? Does pain bring you back, ground you, make you feel less ashamed of your existence because you feel like you're reaping your reward for what you did to my brothers in hell?" Castiel sounds distracted, like he's not really there, and Dean can only imagine it's because Dean's bare before him, one hip scraped and scabbed, cock laying half hard in dark brown curls of hair, balls thick and heavy beneath. Yeah, that's a sight.

Unfortunately, Dean's pretty certain Castiel's thoughts are miles away, down beneath the dust and clay, churning amongst the deepest levels of hell.

Dean groans at the situation and at the question, presses the heels of his hands to his eye sockets. "Don't make me answer that Cas. Just...don't."

"Does it bother you that you're spread out like this Dean?" Castiel asks, a rough calloused hand sliding between Dean's cheeks, smearing past Dean's hole, the muscle twitching beneath the foreign touch and making Dean jumping.

"What bothers me is that you're touching my ass." Dean growls. "That is so many shades of blasphemy." Dean rolls his eyes, slams his hands down on the hood and pushes himself up, watches as Castiel spits rudely onto the palm of his hand, the same one that had been pressed up against his balls seconds before. Gross. The action is so...un-angelic that Dean just stares, mouth parted in shock.

Yet...he can't bring himself to really feel ashamed. He's not exactly into men, but after the humiliating experiences of hell, there's not much that can faze him. He's been laid bare in so, so many ways, that even this is tolerable. Dean almost feels disconnected from it, which is fine by him. But then he's snapped back to the present because he realizes Castiel's spit slick hand is back at his rear again, a finger flicking across the sweaty crack of his ass and pressing slow and thick into Dean.

Blue eyes raise to Dean's, hold him pinned with a single glare, and Dean just remains stiff, ignores the burn until there's two fingers filling him up, dug in to the last knuckle.

"Cas. Don't." Dean warns, muscles clamping tight in irritation, even though Castiel is moving gently, fucking him so sweetly, curling inside him in a way that churns Dean's gut like a good blowjob.

"Shh, quiet Dean." It sounds gentle enough, and coercing, so Dean falls back down onto the hood of the Impala, breathes heavily, and tries not to bite his cheek too hard as three fingers work their way in and good God does it _burn_. Dean doesn't know how guys can dig that whole taking it up the ass thing, this isn't any kind of pleasure. Except between his legs, Dean's cock throbs, a drop of precome squeezing out to drip down and get caught on his pubic hair.

It _hurts. _And that's exactly why Dean _likes_ it.

_I deserve this._ Dean thinks as he feels Castiel's pinky squirm in, feels the sharp pain grow as the angel presses resolutely forward. Dean reminds himself of the fact again as Castiel smears more spit onto his hand, forces more of himself in until Dean can feel the pad of Castiel's thumb.

Dean wants to scream, he wants to sob, to ibeg/i Cas to stop because it hurts so bad. It hurts so bad that as Castiel's hand finally pushes in, Dean's cock is hard and straining, hips raised and an unbidden groan forcing past his lips.

For a moment, Castiel just holds himself still there, hand thrust nearly to the wrist, Dean gasping for stolen breath and squirming, feet kicking in their boots to try and get leverage away from the deeply unsettling sensation.

"Stop moving Dean." Castiel orders and just like that, Dean stops, whimpers on the hood of the car and clenching his jaw shut as Castiel moves. His fingers swirl, curl, press, and with some strange sudden knowledge of physiology gets Dean gasping and bucking his hips.

"St-stop Cas. Stop dammit!" Dean yells, words swept away by the wind as pleasure slams through him, jolts through his bones like an electric shock.

"Say it Dean." Castiel murmurs softly and Dean doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to say to make it istop/i. But then he's thrashing wildly, come spilling down his dick as Castiel milks him for all his worth.

"I forgive you! F-fuck, I forgive you!" Dean cries out, strung out on the climax that's tearing through him like a rocket, so damn good it makes Dean sick to his stomach.

And then Castiel pulls his hand away. He stands there calmly as Dean rolls over on his side, vomits into the sand below him, chokes and gags. Castiel still doesn't say a thing, just watches Dean as he spills his guts, pants still crumpled on his ankles and come smeared across the hood of the car.

And it hurts. It hurts so _good._ But he forgives Cas.


End file.
